


Beginnings and Ends

by ohnoesidontknow



Series: sweet and simple [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Death is Veeery Lightly Hinted at, Multi, Not on my watch, but no angst, with a disgustingly cheesy happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnoesidontknow/pseuds/ohnoesidontknow
Summary: Short and sweet story in which the lady young Geralt saves from the unwanted advances of a man is Jaskier's grandma. Evil men go punished, good deeds reap their just rewards and an orphaned little boy finds his home.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: sweet and simple [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899829
Comments: 5
Kudos: 121





	Beginnings and Ends

Vesemir said the first kill defined a witcher’s Path.

Once they passed the Trials, Eskel headed West from the mountains and saved the city of Yspaden from a werewolf, getting a handful of scars in the fight. To thank him for his services, the city built a great statue in his honour and celebrated his heroics every year feasting three days and three nights. He was known and welcomed in every kingdom and every home, songs were written about his fairness, kindness and swiftness with his sword. That was how Eskel lived and how he, in the end, died: respected by people and famous for being brave and kind.

Lambert, ever the overachiever, headed East, to the mysterious Far Lands. There, at the request of a sorceress, he slayed a ferocious griffin and in return she taught him the secrets of potion making (and some other secrets of the human body too). Lambert always had a talent for potions and armed with a sorceress’s knowledge he quickly became one of the finest alchemists of the continent, making him a deadly enemy to witchers, monsters and sorcerers alike. He was infamous, powerful and feared in all corners of the world, an outcome he was very much satisfied with. That was how he lived and how, centuries later, he died: feared and his name living on in blood-curdling tales village folks told around fires in hushed tones.

After years of training Geralt’s only desire was to return to his old home and see his mother again, so once Vesemir proclaimed them the witchers of Kaer Morhen, he started his journey to South. He didn’t get far.

His first kill as a witcher took place by a sacked carriage not fifty miles away from the fortress with a poor, naked girl bleeding out from her thigh in the dirt, a monster of a man on top of her.

Through the centuries Geralt told the story a few times about how he finished him with two quick cuts, not clean, but spectacular. His listeners normally tentatively nodded along: that man was horrible, he deserved what he got.

Geralt was a straightforward man, but not always an honest one: it was not two cuts to kill him, but a single one on the stomach, because he wanted him to suffer, to scream the way that girl did, to make him feel a shred of her pain, to make the world just a tiny bit more fair, more bearable and just, but that was not the sort of thing people talked about.

The girl passed out the moment Geralt turned towards her, covered in the man’s blood.

That day Geralt swore never to intervene in the affairs of humans, not to play the white knight, and yet, he found himself getting involved again and again, because if he ignored their suffering, he feared he would have lost the remnants of his humanity too.

(It was not an accident Geralt didn’t believe in Destiny or the Gods despite being raised by a religious fanatic mother and a mentor, who begrudgingly, but prayed to the gods every sun-down. He couldn’t believe if such forces in the universe existed they could have let humans suffer so.)

Geralt despises when Jaskier sings about his virtues, but indeed his compassion and good heart were the reason why Geralt ended up becoming the Butcher of Blaviken.

It was the reason why he believed that deep down there was humanity in Princess Adda, something worth fighting for from sundown to the third crowing of the rooster, even though he knew he couldn’t hope for any admiration or gratitude in return.

It was the only reasonable explanation for why the fleeting moment Geralt saw Visenna again at a crowded marketplace he forgave her immediately for abandoning him, if not in words, but in heart. Why he dreamed a thousand times of getting to hold her hand, and feeling so safe and loved again, just once more.

In the end, his good heart and soft spot for poor families was also why Geralt ended up in Posada, meeting an annoying bard, which was an unintended, but not entirely unpleasant consequence.

An annoying bard, who has a mouth that is nice to kiss and is currently introducing him to his family as if he was some kind of royalty.

'Mother, father, grandmother. Let me present you Geralt of Rivia!' He makes a grand gesture towards him, and although Geralt is a big man, he never felt smaller in his life. He nearly bolts when a tiny old lady with blue eyes like Jaskier’s limps to him and takes his face delicately between her soft, wrinkled hands.

'Geralt of Rivia,' she repeats his name so reverently if Geralt was capable of blushing, he’s sure he would. 'I haven’t seen you in a long time, but I would recognise these eyes anywhere.'

Geralt gives Jaskier a side-glance warily.

'I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you, my lady,' he admits quietly, his gaze searching her face, something prickling at the nape of his neck, an almost dejà-vu. 'It happens, if someone lives as long as my kind.'

'Oh, but I remember you, my dear. I might be old and I might faint at the sight of blood, but I do.' There is a delightful, mischievous gleam in her eyes Geralt has seen on women when they know something men don’t. “Everyone knows you here,” she confides him, taking Geralt’s big, ugly, calloused hands in her soft ones, a motherly gesture that makes Geralt’s knees so weak with childish longing he wants to hide with shame. It’s obviously not meant for him, it must be pity, she must be pretending, it’s nothing, but a crude joke at his expence yet to be revealed, it cannot be anything else–

He glances at Jaskier for help, but he only smiles, his eyes blue and so loving it makes Geralt’s chest ache. As he tentatively looks back at the tiny old lady in front of him, he recognises the same look in those blue eyes.

His throat involuntarily constricts as she squeezes Geralt’s hands.

'I remember you, Geralt of Rivia,' she says, her smile soft, kind and everything an abandoned child hopes his mother woud be. 'After all, how could I forget the knight, who saved me.'

For the first time in a hundred-and-ten years, Geralt is finally home.

A good decade later riding North from Rozrog to Kaer Morhen Vesemir crosses Kerack. When he’s looking for a job, the alderman at the inn tells him they don’t have any monsters near and far.

Vesemir scratches his chin. That is rather unusual, unless something powerful and most likely dragon-sized keeps the local population under check.

When he voices his concern, the alderman lets out a delighted belly-laugh.

‘Believe me, my good man, there is no beast three-day-ride near Kerack,’ he assures the old witcher. 'His lordship, the Viscount’s husband hunts those bastards like foxes. If you want to see a monster, go up to Cidaris and find Valdo Marx. That cad’s more than a match for a banshee.’

The men surrounding them cheer and raise their steins of ale in agreement.

Vesemir still observes them with suspicion.

'And what is the name of this brave noble youth, who hunts beasts for sport?’

The inn goes quiet for a moment.

'You don’t know the song, old man?’ asks eventually one of the villagers, drunk enough to talk to a Witcher. 'It’s Sir Geralt of Rivia himself, the White Wolf! May he live another hundred years!’

Men cheer again, but this time Vesemir does not stay to interrogate them further and slips out into the warm summer night. He rides up to the castle of the Lettenhoves, built on rocks white as marble by the sea, towering over the city like a knight protecting his lady.

Even though Vesemir is not quite as quick as when he was when young, it is not difficult for a witcher, silent and invisible like a shadow, to get through the guards and sneak into the castle. It doesn’t take him a long time to locate what he was looking for either: when he hears the noises of conversation from a room, he lurks to the door and carefully creaks it open just enough that he can peak inside.

There is eight of them in the room lit by candle light: an old lady, knitting in her armchair, a young man playing a lute and five little girls braiding a man’s silvery white hair, sitting on a rug.

'What do you think, Ciri?’ one of them asks thoughtfully. 'Should we use the red or the babypink ribbon?’

'Neither,’ grunts the man objected to the treatment, and if Vesemir had any doubts before, now he is sure: it is Geralt, his Geralt, his son in everything but blood.

'I respectfully disagree,’ the young man with the lute interjects. 'You would look dashing with a gold ribbon, love.’ He puts his lute aside to grab the said ribbon from the heap of accessories spread on the rug. 'Here, just let me–’ The ring of little girls part way to give him space to kneel behind Geralt and braid the ribbon in his hair. 'Could you move your head just a bit to the right– Yes, like that, perfect,’ he praises him and Geralt smiles–

And then he doesn’t when he sees Vesemir at the door.

For a moment they just regard each-other and then Vesemir tentatively smiles under his moustache. And, ever so carefully, Geralt returns it before he turns back to the children and pulls the young man in his lap.

'Now lets see how braids look on you, Jaskier,’ he teases him and the little girls squeal with delight at the prospect of a new victim.

That is the first time Vesemir visits the castle and the last time he sees Geralt. But as he rides away under the stars leading him back to Kaer Morhen, despite Destiny’s whims, of one thing he is sure – that is how Sir Geralt of Rivia lives and how he dies: admired by the people, surrounded by his family and tremendously loved.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's all, folks! :D
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this short piece as much as enjoyed writing it – I'm still trying to get used to writing a fairy-tale-esque narrative in English, I really hope it turned out sort-of atmospheric. If you have Opinions, constructive or not, please feel free to share it in the comments, I'm always delighted when I'm reassured that I'm not writing for a virtual void.
> 
> Oh, and if you have any wild ideas you want to see written by yours truly, I'm open to prompts on [Tumblr](https://ohnoesidontknow.tumblr.com/).


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